


Tick Tock, You're Dead!

by agent_cupcake



Series: Goosebumps [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hearts of Stone/Dishonored, Basically Hubert is the unholy combination of Gaunter o'Dimm and the Outsider, F/M, Humiliation, Possessive Sex, Reader is Not My Unit | Byleth, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:54:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27459058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_cupcake/pseuds/agent_cupcake
Summary: “And you?” Petyr asked, his eyes finally rising to meet yours. “Have you been corrupted?”You thought about the power you had been granted by the mark burned into the back of your hand. You thought about the rushing warmth of strength and power and tingling, crackling energy. You thought about how it had felt melting your way through Arianrhod Prison like a hot knife cutting butter, the cloak of void allowing you to slink through the shadows and kill guards before they even knew you were there.You thought about the man who came to your cell that freezing winter’s night and asked if you wished to live. Yes, he was just a man. He introduced himself really quite simply with an elegant bow, his name and title. Count Hubert von Vestra. An interested party, he said. He told you that you had the potential for something greater, to make more of yourself than a petty criminal beheaded for petty crimes.“I might be,” you finally answered.
Relationships: Hubert von Vestra/Reader
Series: Goosebumps [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1967758
Kudos: 46





	Tick Tock, You're Dead!

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration music: Rachmaninoff's Isle of the Dead / Witcher 3: Hearts of Stone Main Theme / Dishonored 2 OST

_On the eve of midnight’s eternal reign, a bitter chill had crept in. Merrily did the stars above dance, how they basked in the argent moon’s glow! Uncaring were they cut in sharp slats in her view, enclosed in a harsh cement frame. Cold indeed was the influence of the coming winter. She, trimmed in fine fetters and a crown of thorn; She, with numb toes turning blue as sensation spared her from the curious gnash of her verminous cellmates; She, who marveled at the change with a mind muddled and wandering._

_Enraptured in fantasy, she wandered to a lake of ice and snow, to the leaping flames in a small cozy homestead, to the place where she laid flat, despondent and shivering. Echoing through the sniveling, coughing, cries, the far away chanting. Holy vows, a rite uttered by the souls in barred pews. This chapel was gated and guarded and locked, the devout all sinners and killers and thieves. A prison of unsaved, unclean, and unmade._

_She thought,_

_O blessed and merciful!_

_She thought,_

_O devil and divine!_

_On the eve of execution, a breath of frost emerged from her lips as a ghostly curl of warm air. Meeting and melding with the cold, it dissipated in the waning light. On the eve of her death, a breath of soft sound was shaped by her lips. A prayer that she spoke with a reverence unlike any she’d ever felt._

_And, somehow, her plea was heard._

_A ghostly apparition in the shadow, a creature of stark moonlight and shade. Death himself. Fear came and went, followed by wonder. Trepidation arose and was stifled by awe. Delusion of the insane or inhuman savior in black. Save me, she said. Save me, she begged-_

“This is ridiculous,” Eileen finally interjected in her coarse way, cutting off Petyr’s story. The intensity that had clouded his eyes while he wove the tale fled, replaced by an ineffective scowl at the unrepentant Eileen.

“I agree,” you said flippantly. “I would never beg.”

Petyr looked from Eileen to you, annoyance seemingly forgotten as a mischievous smile crossed his face. “Are you sure about that?” he asked.

You hid your smiling blush in your mug of ale, refusing to openly show how flattering his attentions really were. At least for now. There was little honor in falling prey to a bard’s silver tongue, but you weren’t one to let shame stop you, either.

Eileen gave him a flat look before turning it to you. “I didn’t come here to listen to a bard’s ridiculous fictions,” she told you. “How did you actually slip Arianrhod Prison, girl? You should be dead.”

“Who knows,” you responded with a shrug, shooting her your coy smile. You liked her attention, too, even like this. Reputation, you found, suited you well.

“My sweet muse is as elusive as the wind,” Petyr interjected with a sigh. “Not even I have been able to glean the truth from her. Alas, all I have to go on is hearsay and rumor.”

“Come now,” you said, “I’ve told you more than I have anyone else.”

“You’ve given me winter’s chill and the moon,” Petyr accused. “My story could be something magnificent if you were to give me just a bit more.”

“I have no doubt that it’ll be wonderful regardless,” you cooed.

“You’ve grown quite the ego,” Eileen noted. “And you,” she looked at Petyr, “shouldn’t be indulging her.”

“I’m his muse,” you said. “Why shouldn’t he indulge me?” Eileen rolled her eyes so hard you wondered how they didn’t stick in the back of her head, but Petyr just laughed.

“I s’pose I’ve seen men do worse to get laid,” she muttered. “In any case, I’m off for another round. Will you be having more of the same?”

“You hope to loosen my tongue with liquor?” you asked, making Eileen’s lips quirk in what could only be a yes. You laughed, swirling around the last dregs of your ale around in the bottom of your mug. “I’d be careful if I were you. You might find that you like the truth even less than Petyr’s pretty story.”

Eileen scoffed at that, likely seeing your warning as another part of your dramatics. In a way, it was —you’d adopted an affinity for the dramatic— but the fact was that the truth was stranger than any of the stories in circulation about your escape from one of the finest prisons in Fodlan.

“I’ll have another,” Petyr chimed in.

“We’ll make a merry band of drunken fools, then,” Eileen said under her breath as she stood to maneuver to the counter.

You watched her disappearance into the crowd with a contemplative feeling that didn’t suit your projected mood. Eileen was an old friend, but you were under no illusions about the danger of revealing the truth of your escape or the reason you’d come to the city in the first place. Such things were too compromising, and you hadn’t arrived in Fhirdiad just to flaunt your newfound notoriety or seduce pretty bards who wanted to write stories about you, although those were enjoyable in their own right.

You were here on a mission.

On the night of which Petyr had woven his mostly fictional story, the one who saved you hadn’t done so for free. No, he had given you a list of names —a list of targets. He’d called the group something strange, Those Who Slither in the Dark. But if it meant saving yourself from death, you’d have agreed to anything. The first was here in the capital city, an occult witch masquerading as a holy woman called Cornelia. Tracking her down had been a pain in the first place, but now came the real challenge. She’d snaked her way into a position in the royal court, gaining access to her would be greatly difficult.

Perhaps that was an explanation for your mood, your desire to indulge in the revel and lose yourself for just a night in the wealth of attention and haze of liquor and arms of a charming bard.

Yes, you had been saved from death. Yes, you had been granted powers that made you the most effective assassin in history. Yes, you were finally closing in on your prey. But this would also be the first test, the make or break moment that would either justify the cheating of death or condemn you.

The true hunt had begun.

Compulsively, you scratched the back of your left hand. You wore fingerless gloves to cover the branded mark beneath, but even after an entire moon cycle of its presence, the vague tingling burn of it was noticeable. Distracting.

“It wasn’t death that came to save me,” you said softly.

“What was that?” Petyr asked, looking up from the notebook he’d been scribbling in. With those soft hands and sweet words, he was hardly what you would call your normal type. But he wasn’t necessarily unattractive, what with those messy curls that flopped haphazardly over his forehead and goofy smile. Even if his interest was strictly in your novelty as someone who would give him a good story to tell, his attention in combination with the warm glow of the tavern and the yeasty, bubbling burn of ale in your stomach made him very appealing.

“In my cell,” you said, “He was not Death. He was... a man.” Your lips quirked upwards in a half smile as you leaned forward, knowing full well of how it would look considering the swooping neckline of your dress and the added support of your arms propping up your bust. Petyr’s eyes glanced down, his tongue swiping his lower lip. “But isn’t that how it always is?” you continued. “Even fate itself… Men do so enjoy corrupting things.”

“And you?” Petyr asked, his eyes finally rising to meet yours. “Have you been corrupted?”

You thought about the power you had been granted by the mark burned into the back of your hand. You thought about the rushing warmth of strength and power and tingling, crackling energy. You thought about how it had felt melting your way through Arianrhod Prison like a hot knife cutting butter, the cloak of void allowing you to slink through the shadows and kill guards before they even knew you were there.

You thought about the man who came to your cell that freezing winter’s night and asked if you wished to live. Yes, he was just a man. He introduced himself really quite simply with an elegant bow, his name and title. Count Hubert von Vestra. An interested party, he said. He told you that you had the potential for something greater, to make more of yourself than a petty criminal beheaded for petty crimes.

“I might be,” you finally answered. “Perhaps it’s me that will corrupt you.”

Petyr grinned. His cheeks were pink, his eyes alight with want. “Oh, dark enchantress,” he said, the theatrics taking on a playful lilt. “Forgive me for my bold tongue, but when you look at me like that I’m half tempted to fuck you right here on this table.”

That surprised you, the vulgarity intermixed with the romanticism. It threw all thoughts of the strange man and his strange mark from your mind as you laughed in raw delight. For a second, things really were wonderful in the glowing half-madness you’d embraced to escape for the night.

But then there was a disturbance. Behind you, towards the counter and the door, the crowd chatter and atmosphere shifted, the sound dampening. “Oi,” a voice said, his voice amplified in the suddenness of relative quiet. “You look like a posh sort of bloke. I’m not sure you belong here, chum.” The response was too quiet to hear, but something made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. “Really? Well, I hate to tell you, but there’s a door charge.” There was an odd hush in the barroom as you turned around, but you couldn’t see whoever the drunkard was talking to, as they were around the corner in front of the door. But you had a feeling. A pretty bad feeling. Whatever response he got made the drunk’s face darken, his ruddy cheeks turning a grotesque shade of purple. In the same second, the mark on the back of your hand burned like a fresh brand, the skin surging with an excess of the same power you used to manipulate the world to your will. A shocked yelp left your mouth, the sound distorted as the air of the warm tavern seemed to separate, sounds drawn out and colors blurring in utter annihilation before it all snapped back into hyper focus. Like a painting, the room was completely still.

“That’s better,” the person behind the doorway said. You knew it was him, you’d seen him several times in your dreams ever since that cold night. You knew it before he even spoke because you could _feel_ him through the mark on your hand.

Count Hubert von Vestra, looking utterly human despite the impossibility he was surely responsible for, stepped around the drunkard blocking his way. He was not death, nor was he the demon you had occasionally fancied him to be. Your savior, maybe, the one who had gifted you the abilities that had allowed you to escape from Arianrhod. Or your boss, as he was the one who had ordered you on your current hunt.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, knocking over your chair in your haste to get to your feet. The chair hit the floor, but everything else remained perfectly stationary. Mouths open mid-sentence, droplets of ale hanging still from where they’d been splattering to the floor, candle flames held in their flicker, and dozens of open eyes glassy and staring. “This is your doing?” You made a general gesture, almost unable to comprehend the wrongness of a world without motion. “Why?”

Hubert eyed you before answering. As he had before, he wore elegant dark attire, his dark hair swept over one eye. In a lineup of noblemen, he’d fit right in, but framed by the jovial warm atmosphere of the cheap tavern with its rough clientele, he didn’t belong. His eyes scanned you with an intimidating sort of discernment, taking in your low cut dress, loose hair, and makeup with an expression you couldn’t read.

“That should be obvious. Even by the standards of your kind, these ones are loathsome creatures. I have no interest in being subjected to them any more than I must,” Hubert said, his gaze sweeping across the tavern with an expression of unveiled disgust. Each step of his boot on the unpolished plank flooring was loud in the silence as he walked through the diorama bar room, his arms militaristically folded behind his back. “I’ve come to see you.”

“Why?” you asked, shifting on nervous feet. Just like that, all of the confidence you’d so gleefully worn throughout the night was torn to shreds. There was something unbearably wrong about his presence, and the stopped time had little to do with it. Animal instinct told you that he was dangerous. A threat. The logical part of your mind told you that was silly. He had saved you, given you a weapon that elevated you above most other people.

“Before we have that discussion, I must take care of something,” he said. You held your breath when he passed Eileen, frozen with her elbows on the bar’s dirty countertop, but Hubert paid her no mind. His searching ended when he landed upon a serrated steak knife, crusted with the juices of the meat it’d been used to cut. You tensed up when he picked it up, your hand going to the knife strapped to your thigh beneath your dress on instinct. But Hubert didn’t come towards you, or even look at you, instead doubling back to the door. You paused, confused.

For a moment Hubert simply seemed to be admiring the still figure of the drunk who had been trying to bully him into paying up. Then he pushed the knife into the man’s eye socket. Just like that, without any resistance. It made a squishing, wet sound. The worn wooden grip stuck out from the man’s face, but his expression didn’t change, his mouth open and stance unsteady. Hubert twisted the knife a bit, eliciting another sickening squishing sound, then let it be.

“When time restarts,” Hubert said, “what do you think will happen to him?”

You swallowed hard, dragging your eyes away from the sight of the knife’s worn wooden grip and the face it protruded from. “He’ll die,” you said, steeling yourself to sound unaffected by the casual display of power. To rationalize it. You’d seen people killed for less in the city by the bejeweled hands of nobles or the rough hands of work overseers or even just by other vagrants. That was life. In a way, this wasn’t even as bad as all that. The drunk would feel no pain, wouldn’t suffer.

But sickness churned in your stomach when you risked a glance back at the man and you knew that wasn’t the source of your discomfort. He was entirely still, frozen in a moment of obliviousness. His expression was animated, but he was already dead. You knew that what you were telling yourself were nothing but little consolations. It wasn’t as if you were enough of a humanitarian to actually care about the drunk’s suffering, your fear was a selfish one.

“You’re correct,” Hubert answered. Tilting his head slightly as he turned to walk towards you, he added, “And the world will lose nothing of value.”

Hearing that, you felt your sickness become disgust. Despite the frozen time and the crackling miasma of power that electrified the mark on your hand with his proximity, right then _Count_ Vestra differed so little from the bloated aristocrats you detested. And there was something to that which lent you a bit of fire, of bravery. “And what makes you qualified to decide that?” you asked him.

Hubert clicked his tongue, his gaze impossible to read, his steps hard and evenly paced. “You forget your place.”

It took barely a second of meeting his unnerving yellow gaze to decide that you didn’t want to die on this hill, your head falling into a slight subservient bow. “Forgive me,” you told him, and you even managed to sound halfway convincing.

“You feign respect,” he noted dryly.

“No, I-”

“Of course I’d prefer the genuine article,” Hubert continued before you could defend yourself, “but I don’t mind this, either. I’m rather curious to see how long you can remain composed.”

While you really didn’t like the tenor of that statement and what it meant for you, you felt your shoulders relax a little in relief.

“As to your question,” he continued, “I believe that the answer should be obvious. I require no qualifications other than my ability. I can, therefore it is my right. Is it not the same with you?”

You frowned. While you had originally meant the question as rhetorical, it was worse to hear his explanation. In that way, Hubert was the mirror of nearly every evil man in power you’d had the displeasure of coming in contact with. But he wasn’t, the mark blazing on the back of your hand was proof enough. That was why you held your tongue, trying to contain your distaste for that line of thought.

“It seems that you don’t understand,” Hubert noted.

“How could I?” you asked, feeling your lip pull back in an expression of unintentional disgust before you could catch yourself, arranging your features into a more composed expression. Hubert saw the shift, you knew he did, but he didn’t point it out.

“How indeed,” he mused. “Let’s make this a teaching moment then, shall we? Actions and consequences. Certainly even you are familiar with those terms.”

“Yes,” you responded, too off put by the sudden shift to react to his condescending tone.

“Good,” he said patronizingly. “In this case, he chose to make a nuisance of himself. As a consequence, I ended his life.”

“I understand _that_ ,” you told him. Hubert paused, once again considering you with an intensity that made your skin crawl.

“I see. You’re not arguing logic, you’re arguing morality.”

You drew in a deep breath, considering that question. What right could you possibly have to argue the morality of murder? Your hands were dripping with the blood of the lives you’d taken. But this was different. The ease of the murder, the casual way Hubert treated the act. You’d never taken any great pleasure in what you did, neither could you believe there wouldn’t be consequences for all the things you’d done in your life. But all of that rang so completely false, hypocritical. The bloodlust that had consumed you when you escaped Arianrhod was a stark memory. How many men had you killed that night, high on the exhilaration of power? Finally, you shrugged. “I guess I am.”

“Hm,” Hubert responded, dismissively amused. “Then you fail to understand even more than I originally thought.” He paused, waiting for you to respond. Waiting for your reaction. That alone was enough to keep you silent, a response that seemed to displease him. He sighed. “You should be thanking me. Men like him will never learn, they’re far better off as _examples_.”

“I don’t need an example to know of your power,” you said, rubbing the mark on the back of your hand through the thin material. “I’m well aware.”

“You assume this was for you?” Hubert asked, his voice lilting with amusement as he flippantly waved at the dead man. “Don’t flatter yourself. No, you will know when I’m dealing with you.”

It took you a beat to respond, thrown off by the threat in his voice. When you did speak, it was awkwardly stiff, a stupid mistake that easily gave away your apprehension. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“An entire moon has elapsed since I first issued your orders,” Hubert said. “And yet you have done nothing to further the mission I gave you.”

Your thoughts took a moment to reorganize, to follow what he was saying. When they did, anger at that accusation flared up within you. Murdering an entire cabal of borderline inhuman creatures took time. You were close to getting the first of them, but you were under no illusions that the others would be even more difficult. But carefully, carefully. Losing your temper wasn’t going to benefit you. Furthermore, you were pretty sure that’s what he _wanted_. With clenched fists and all the calm courage you could muster, you met his eyes. Pale yellow. Such an odd, inhuman color, the pigment too light in the shadowed recess of his eyes. “I wouldn’t say I’ve done nothing,” you said. “The job you gave me is… Difficult.”

“Are you complaining?” he asked, that edge of patronizing incredulity returning. “I had hoped you were above that.”

“I’m not complaining,” you ground out through clenched teeth. “I’m simply saying that I need time to plan before I act.”

Hubert’s lips quirked at the corner, the promise of a smirk. “And this is what you call planning?” he asked, gesturing to the tableau tavern he’d frozen around the two of you.

“Gathering information,” you corrected him. That was only a partial lie, you had met with an informant earlier in the night.

“Really? To me it looks an awful lot like you’re wasting your time at bars, feeding your own ego, brazenly flirting with men, and getting shamelessly drunk. Is that all a part of your plan? What’s your next step, I wonder —taking that detestable poet to your room for a drunken romp and then spending the entirety of tomorrow hungover and regretful?”

A flush stained your cheeks, your neck, the heat making its way into your head. The fists you’d made to steady yourself became cutting, your fingernails digging past the fabric of your gloves and into the skin of your palms. “What does that have to do with anything?” you asked in a flat voice.

“So it’s true, then?” he asked, walking in an arc around you and the table to appraise Petyr —unruly curls, a round face, his cheeks pink and eyes excited. Hubert picked up the man’s notebook, scanning the lines of scribbled words before his expression twisted in clearly conveyed disgust. “You do yourself a grave disservice if this is the best you can hope to bed.”

“What, are you jealous?” you asked, the words coming out of your mouth without any consideration, just caustic anger.

Hubert threw the notebook carelessly back on the table and straightened out, tilting his chin upwards imperiously. His jaw ticked, teeth clenching. You’d hit upon a nerve. “Careful,” he told you, his voice deadly smooth. “It’d be a shame if I was forced to do something... _Unsavory_ because you can’t manage that mouth of yours.”

“Struck a nerve, did I?” you asked, your temper too hot to appreciate that antagonizing him was a bad idea. “It was just a question, I can’t think of any other reason why else you’d care about who I choose to sleep with. You may have saved me, but it’s _my_ life.”

“You’re gravely mistaken if that’s what you believe,” Hubert told you, walking towards you. He was tall, you realized. You hadn’t really focused on it because he was so slim, but his height made him tower above you, shrouded in the distinct sensation of the inhuman energy that he wore like a cloak. He looked like a man, but on every level, your body recognized that he wasn’t. “You belong to me now. I saved you from the chopping block and you accepted my mark,” he grabbed your hand before you could pull it away, holding your wrist in an iron grip to pull the glove off and revealed the branded skin, “therefore, your life is mine.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” you said, trying to tug your arm away from him. Panic was beginning to set in, your heart thumping wildly in your chest.

“Of course you did,” Hubert said, letting you go to stumble backward a few steps, “it’s not my fault if you’re dissatisfied with the consequences.”

You drew your left hand towards your chest, cradling it as you caught your balance. But you could still feel his touch, the leather of his glove as cold as the winter night that he had saved you from. Worse was the way the mark ached, pulsed with each frantic beat of your heart. It wasn’t that odd crackling burn, but something different. Feeling much like a cornered animal, you eyed the door, wondering if the world outside would be subjected to the same impossibly stopped time.

“Do you really think there’s anywhere you can run that I won’t find you?” Hubert asked with a droll look, seemingly composed after his flash of rage.

“If I really belong to you, I don’t suppose I should dare to think anything, _master_ ,” you spat at him, your words bitter and mocking and angry.

You were trying to get a reaction out of him, but what you hadn’t expected was for Hubert to _laugh_. It was a slow, intimidating sound that oozed genuine mirth. It sent shivers down your spine, chills across your arms. “Hm, you seem to have a knack for testing my patience,” he told you, not rising to meet your anger like he had only moments before. “I wonder —is it pure recklessness, or could it be that on top of being naive and disrespectful, you’re not as smart as I thought you were?”

He was baiting you, that smug smirk said it all. Your fear should have kept you in check. The only thing you needed to do was apologize and keep your head down. You’d had awful bosses before, that was a part of your trade of choice.

“What, have I disappointed you, master?” you asked before you could actually, really consider how ill advised it was to dig yourself into a deeper hole. “I’m _really_ sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Hubert said, smirking. “But you will be.”

His continued calm threw you off, his words making your chest clench. It took a moment to find the words to respond, to cling to the bravado that you’d adopted in your anger. “Is that a threat?” you asked, only halfway able to maintain the mocking tone.

“Of course not,” Hubert said, his voice dripping with macabre glee. “If I were threatening you, that would imply you still had the option to avoid my wrath. No, this isn’t a threat. You _will_ be reminded of your place.”

You wanted to be angry, to respond to him with wit and strength. You weren’t supposed to be afraid, not anymore. You’d beaten death. You were a wanted woman, practically famous in certain circles. You were more than anyone else. But, right then, none of that mattered. “What are you going to do?” you asked, your oh-so brave words coming out far softer than before. “There’s not much that people haven’t already tried. But I’m sure you know that, _master_.”

“That worm who you mistakenly told about me said something I found quite interesting,” Hubert said, acting as if you hadn’t spoken. “That he was half tempted to, what was it, _fuck_ you right there on the table? Yes, I believe that was it.” He paused, tilting his head as he considered you. “Oh my, you look horrified. I wonder why that might be. When he said it you giggled and blushed.” He paused, lip curling slightly. “Truth be told, I found the whole exchange quite nauseating.”

“You shouldn’t listen in on people’s private conversations, then,” you told him, but your voice was becoming more and more weak and unsteady because you had an awful feeling about where this was going.

“Need I repeat myself?” Hubert asked. “You don’t belong to yourself anymore. Best to shed yourself of that notion sooner rather than later.”

Your face twisted in disgust, the mark on your hand pulsing again. But the feeling was watery, sinking deep and low because everything about this was pointing to one eventually and you had no idea how you were meant to escape from it. “So, what, I can’t fool around anymore?”

Hubert’s head cocked to the side as he focused on you. The answer took too long, the absolute silence an awful backdrop to the way your heart raced. Finally, he spoke, “Nobody else has the right to touch what is rightfully mine.” The statement was so unassailable, so matter-of-fact. Hubert didn’t leave room for argument because he didn’t think there was one. Entitlement was hardly a new concept to you, but this was different. Again, the mark on your hand buzzed with an electric feeling.

Using a scowl to cover any other emotion, you crossed your arms, hiding your left hand in the crook of your arm. “If you think you can force me to practice abstinence, you’re wrong,”

Hubert sighed like you were being stupid. “I didn’t say that.”

Just like that, your stomach dropped. Your heart, too. This was where the conversation had been leading, where it had already gone. But confirmation solidified the anxiety that had been aimlessly swirling through your head. “You wouldn’t,” you said, your voice throaty and soft. 

“I’ve never held with the base idea that humans hold about the importance of sex,” Hubert mused. “It’s a rather grotesque human trait to presume that everything would be about their messy coupling when so much more exists beyond their petty desires. However, I can agree with one point. Sex is about power.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you said. Around and around the static figures of a once-cozy tavern your eyes danced, trying to find something familiar enough to anchor yourself to, to rationalize this impossible situation. But there was nothing. "That doesn't even make any sense."

Hubert frowned, his disapproval nearly tangible. “Really now, _must_ I spell it out for you?” he asked. You said nothing. “Fine. If I were —to borrow that thief’s terminology— _fuck_ you right here on this table, you will hate me. That is without question. But I’ll also be able to prove two things to you. Would you like to take a guess as to what they are?”

The word “fuck” coming out of his mouth had sounded awkward and wrong before, but now it was smooth and oozing intent. He said he wasn’t threatening you, but the use of the obscenity in and of itself certainly felt like one. You swallowed against a dry throat, your arms tightening in more like a self-soothing hug than a defiant cross. “No,” you forced out through a clenched jaw. He seemed disappointed by your rejection to play. Good.

“Very well,” Hubert said. “The first is the connection forged by that mark I’ve given you. The second is a far more physical and brutish reminder of ownership, but I believe such a thing will suffice as a lesson for now.”

“You’re wrong,” you told him, finding an unwavering sense of strength in that assertion. “No, you’re just… You’re wrong, this is ridiculous.”

Hubert gave you another condescending smile. “It’s fundamental human psychology.”

“Is this meant to be a joke or something?" you asked. “You're disgusting.”

He grinned, eyes dancing with genuine amusement. “Do you believe your petty insults mean anything to me?”

“I don’t care!” you exclaimed. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve done for me, you have no right to say such despicable things or to even think of… Of…”

“Of fucking you,” Hubert offered. You winced, recoiling physically in disgust at hearing the words come from him. “It will be easier if you submit, you know. It doesn’t have to be entirely unpleasant.”

“You’re crazy, stay away from me,” you told him, finally doing what you felt as if you should have done a while ago and pulling the knife from your thigh sheath.

“Raising a weapon against your master?” Hubert asked, not even the least bit intimidated. “Not to mention your deplorable lack of manners...” He clicked his tongue. “You really should at least _try_ to use your head.”

Beyond the reason of humanity, animal instinct had taken over. Fight or flight. You had drawn your knife, but you couldn’t fight him. Not in this world of stopped time, maybe not at all.

So you fled.

Hubert laughed. Maniacal, the laugh of a man who was overcome with delight in victory.

You hit the floor _hard_. Whether it was your own fault or his doing, you didn’t know. All you were aware of was the visceral pained panic of crashing face-first to the ground, your chin knocking on the wood and the knife scattering away from your grasp. Through ringing ears, you heard the heavy, grunting exhale as all the air in your lungs collapsed outwards. Instinctively, you forced the pain from your mind and crawled forward to reach the blade, your only hope of defense.

“Ah, ah,” Hubert said above you, his boot coming down on the back of your hand. You howled, trying to pull away, but he just ground his heel down until you went limp. Slowly entering your field of view, Hubert stooped down to pick up your knife. A lovely little piece, shiny and sharp enough to cut paper. Skin would part beneath it with ease.

The second his boot was off of your hand, you threw yourself backward, landing on your ass with the singular drive to get away. Nevermind that it took you further from the door, as long as you weren’t near him. Hubert watched with an unreadable expression, twirling your knife with graceful gloved hands.

“There are so many reasons I should dislike you,” he said.

“The feeling's mutual,” you muttered, although it sounded significantly less brave when your breathing was so erratic.

“What is it, I wonder? I suppose you do have a certain kind of...” Hubert’s head tilted as he considered you, searching for the proper word, “ _tenacity_ that I quite admire. Even when the world beat you down, you refused to give up. Moreover, you always proved that you had the _ability_ to do so. But that could be simply attributed to your stupidity and dumb luck, hardly a unique trait among humankind.”

“So now you just wanna talk?” you asked with a hysterical sort of incredulity, finally hauling yourself up to your feet in a dizzy lurch of limbs and imbalance.

“Is there something else you’d rather me do?” Hubert asked. Whatever ideas danced behind his unnerving yellow gaze, you didn’t even want to guess at. When you didn’t respond, he took a step towards you, still twirling your knife in his hands. “I thought as much. Besides, there’s no reason to rush this. After so long of denying myself, I have all the time in the world to make myself clear to you.”

“Long?” you asked. “It hasn’t been any more than a moon.”

“I’ve been watching you since long before you were foolish enough to get yourself imprisoned,” Hubert said, stating it as if it was a fact you should have been well aware of. But you weren’t. 

“How long?” you asked, your voice softer.

“That idea scares you, does it?” Hubert asked, lips quirking in a budding smirk. “At the time, I recognized my interest as a potential weakness and held off from interfering. But when you were imprisoned, I found the idea that you should die to be... an unpleasant one. A waste, perhaps.” He was continuing to get closer, his expression losing all mirth and replacing it with an expression of intense focus, his lip pulled back with the cool embers of anger. “You’re a foolish, vain, emotional, and _brazen_ woman. I should view you as nothing more than a disagreeable problem to be fixed.”

Your lower back hit the table and Hubert didn’t stop approaching, pinning you against the edge. You felt wild in your fear, your eyes skating around the motionless tavern, looking everywhere and anywhere that wasn’t _him_ , until Hubert used the knife’s sharp tip to force you into tilting your head upwards, to keep your gaze on his. His expression was strange. The anger still burned a cold fire in the tick of his jaw and the tightness of his lips, but there was an uncertainty to it. Something precarious and piercing.

“But despite that,” Hubert said, “I cannot yet find a reason to justify your death.”

There were many things that you might have said in response. Not in the least to point out and perhaps leverage this strange confession of feelings, whatever they were, but also to taunt him, to dare him to kill you. To scorn the sickening type of affection that this seemed to be born of. But you didn’t, not when a knife was at your neck and his power was thick in the air, the mark on the back of your hand coming alive with his proximity.

After a prolonged moment of silence pregnant with tension, Hubert composed himself. “It doesn’t matter, I suppose,” he said, “I know you well enough that I can be certain of the fact that you will rise to the challenges I’ve presented to you. That you should enact my will is of the greatest importance. So, then, it follows that this is necessary. Pride is a deplorable sin. It must be corrected.”

“Is lust not also a sin?" you whispered, a truly unintentional slip of the tongue.

"Oh you are a clever girl," he said, the amusement of the words curbed by the way his jaw had tightened. "I wonder if I could taste impertinence on your lips."

From the statement and the flick of his yellow gaze to your mouth, you should have known what he meant by that. But your mouth was opening to ask when Hubert pushed his lips to yours. It was harsh and artless like he had only the vaguest idea of how kisses were meant to be. But you could feel his _need_ through it. Hubert wasn't trying to gain power over you, or use the act of romance to score some kind of mocking win. You had no idea what that meant other than a gut-wrenching sense of disgust and terror, but he’d lowered the knife from your neck to crowd you in closer and you knew there had to be an advantage in this for you.

So, forcing yourself to relax, you allowed his tongue past your lips, hesitantly returning the kiss. Despite the forceful way Hubert had begun, he seemed unwilling to be overly violent or dominant. Enough to allow you to take the lead, even. One of his hands rose to cradle the back of your head, pulling strands of your hair through leather-clad fingers. It really did feel romantic.

After a prolonged moment, Hubert drew away from the kiss slowly. Savoring it.

You butted your head forward.

He pulled back before your forehead could crunch his nose inwards and no sooner did you lash out that his hand was on your neck. You fought off his grip, but it was like a vice around your throat. Hubert considered you from an arm’s length distance. All of the weakness and romance you’d hoped to exploit was hardened into stone and anger, his expression making his dark annoyance more than clear.

"Lash out however you like,” he said, “but remember this: You are no match for me."

You spat at him.

Hubert’s look of surprise was, at first, enough of a reward for the thoughtless act. But then that iced over as he swiped the saliva away, the fingers choking you squeezing ever so slightly harder than before. Black orbs danced at the edge of your vision, your throat making strange little choking sounds as you struggled to breathe in.

“My own fault, I suppose,” Hubert said under his breath. You flinched when he raised the knife, but he just jammed it into the wooden surface of the table. Out of your reach. Without his grip faltering on your neck, Hubert pulled off the green brooch at his throat so he could undo the knot of his cravat and whip it off with a sharp movement. “You have made it clear that you are undeserving of mercy.” Gasping for air, you didn’t think to shut your mouth until he’d already stuffed the ivory silk cravat into your mouth. You reached to pull it out, but Hubert retrieved your knife and pressed it to your cheek. Right beneath your watering eyes, which you kept trained on his. “There,” he said. “That’s much better. What do you think?”

Your response was garbled, muffled by the fabric and the lack of air. That made Hubert smile, but his amusement was fleeting. His fingers loosened from around your throat, causing your head to spin and vision to waver as you nearly suffocated yourself in an attempt to get a full breath. That confusion only got worse when he pulled you upright. You didn’t struggle, too dazed. Nor did you have any recourse when he used the hand you clumsily raised in defense to twirl you around and push you down. The front of your torso hit the table with a solid, painful thump, your aching chin knocking against the surface. Acting before you could really begin to fight, Hubert used his grip on your wrist to push that arm up against your back, hard enough to make your shoulder feel on the verge of popping. Your cries were muffled, any attempt to demand for him to release you made into senseless mush. Too frightened that he’d actually dislocate your shoulder, you went limp.

Hubert hummed in approval and, collecting your other hand so he could keep you still with a grip around both wrists, he flipped up the skirt of your dress, revealing the scant barrier of your underwear.

“You’d better hold still. I’d hate for my hand to slip,” he all but purred. You gasped around the wad of damp silk in your mouth when you felt the sharp edge of your knife at your hip, fearful dread about his intentions drawing you into a panic. But the knife didn’t seek skin, instead being used to slip underneath the fabric of your panties, pulling the fabric taut until it gave way to the blade.

Unable to twist your torso, trying to look back at him only gave you a watery sideways view of the motionless bar, all of the doll-like people who could see what was happening with their dead, glassy eyes. An audience who couldn’t help you. You demanded that he stop, that he let you go, but the words were nothing and your throat ached from being choked as you desperately gasped for air.

“It’s almost a shame to ruin these. I like this color,” Hubert mused, cutting the other side’s seam until the fabric of your underwear fell open, gravity dropping them to the floor. Afterward, you heard him toss your knife away, the weapon skittering across the old wooden planks and very surely out of your reach. A moment later, he carefully placed one leather glove on the table beside you, then the other.

Wildly, you flipped your head, hoping maybe that a different view would reveal some method of escape that you could use, thrashing and bucking despite the pain it brought to your shoulder. But turning your head brought your eyes to Petyr. He’d called you his muse and clung to your every word, treating you like an idol. Nausea swelled in your throat, your eyes squeezing shut to avoid him, to shut out the shame of knowing that he’d —frozen or not— bear witness.

"I don’t mind it myself," Hubert said calmly, "but I've been told that this hurts more without a certain amount of lubrication. If you had behaved, you could have spared yourself."

You yelped and bucked away from him with renewed strength, but Hubert just grunted in annoyance, pushing your arms further up your back until both shoulders blazed with acute agony. At the same time, his other hand came down hard on your ass. The striking palm was cold, but the imprint it left behind was burning hot. The pain, intense and shocking as it was, had nothing on the scalding flare of humiliation that followed the loud clap of skin on skin. The audience you felt watching were little more than empty wax figurines, but to know that there was anyone around to watch you be disgraced and defiled was as bad as any physical distress.

Feeling you go limp in response to being spanked, Hubert let out a little laugh. “Is that really all it takes? I’m almost disappointed,” he said, his hand coming down again on your stinging ass to rub gentle circles over the hot imprint he’d left. The dissonant sensations brought chills to your skin, a shiver down your spine. Another humiliation. There were tears coming out of your shut eyes, a sob building in your chest as you realized that you weren’t going to fight your way out of this.

There were no more demands, no threats. Through the gag, now soaked entirely with saliva and tears, you begged Hubert to stop, to not go through with this.

“I can’t quite understand you,” he said. “Could it be that you’re finally begging? You should know by now that it’s too late for that.”

The sobs that had been building in your chest released, your body heaving with the panicked cries. You couldn’t see him, but you could hear the shuffling of fabric as he got his trousers out of the way. In your lifetime, you’d had your share of dalliances. Not like this. This wasn’t sex, this wasn’t rational, you could hardly believe that this was _real_. A boot-clad foot wedged itself between your stupidly high heels to kick your legs apart into a wider stance, his hand pushing you further down against the table.

It wasn’t until you felt the press of his cock —slick with what could only have been his own saliva— against your entrance that you kind of realized that this was going to happen no matter what you did or said or wanted. You weren’t aroused in the least, your body completely unprepared for this. And you knew it was futile, that you were only inviting more pain, but you made a last attempt at escaping him. It wasn’t of your own volition, it was the final bestial thrashing panic of prey attempting to slip the jaws of a predator. Like an animal, you howled a mixture of incomprehensible sounds and insults and threats and pleas, bucking against his grip even as the pain in your arm burned in a firebrand of agony.

The cry that scratched the sides of your throat nearly choked you when it met the barrier of the gag as Hubert forced himself into you anyway. The scant lubrication might have eased his way, but that was for his benefit, not yours. Considering how tense and unaroused you were, there was nothing to mitigate the pain. He wasn’t gentle either, thrusting into you until his hips met your ass without mercy.

“There,” he said, his breathing heavier than before. “That wasn’t so bad.”

You sobbed and might have told him to go fuck himself or asked him to stop or anything, but Hubert obviously couldn’t understand you. He just laughed, a breathless, excitable sound, pulling out slowly enough that you were able to exhale in relief as the pain left with him. Only to shout when he thrust back in, no more gentle than before. There was something horrifically sexless about it. You weren’t aroused enough for blood to be flowing hot and excitedly between your legs, for the nerves to be tingling and receptive to the touch. It was just brutality. Violence. 

You fought against him when he reached out to grab your left hand from where it was pinned and undo the fist you’d formed it into, but that was as ineffective as any of your other struggles. Not releasing your right arm, Hubert pinned your left palm flat to the table, his hand pressed directly on top of the branded mark. 

And then you understood why. You could _feel_ it.

Agony wracked its way through your body with each terribly violent thrust. There was blood, you could feel the slight tacky slickness of it coating his shaft. You were more than aware that what Hubert was doing was causing nothing but pain of the worst type, dry and invasive and unwanted. Each time his cock tore into you, splitting your insides with that awful pinching pain, his icy skin slapping against yours in a sickening mockery of what sex was meant to be.

But Hubert’s cold palm was pressed against the mark on the back of your hand, pinning it to the table beside you, and you could feel the way it reacted to his raw touch. The cold and the hot fought against each other, making the mark pulse and pound in time with your own heartbeat. It was all connected. You could feel his power —the power you drew upon when you used magic— coursing through your veins. Thrumming through your body. You could feel him not just fucking you, the agonizing split of his cock making you cry out in pain, but _his_ pleasure. It wasn’t the same as a feeling stemming from physical stimulation, but a far more deeply ingrained inner sensation. A connection. Your connection to him. You were feeling his pleasure in raping you and it was _good_.

Like an awful forced feedback loop, your body reacted to what you felt —what he felt— opening up and easing his way and compounding the sensations. And maybe that’s what your body wanted anyway, to allow the sensations to shift into something good and spare yourself the pain.

“You should feel honored,” Hubert said, his voice heavily strained but no less smug. But you could imagine the smile he wore as you relented, your confused, abused body beginning to give as his pleasure created your own. “I don’t often lower myself to such base acts.”

You shook your head in disgusted denial of the idea that you’d be anything other than revolted by this, but even if you could ignore your own stoked lust, his was impossible to shut out. And you couldn’t ignore what you felt. As the pinching stabbing agony of pain began to bloom into the curious coiling of pleasure in your core, Hubert was slowing down, focusing on deep, even strokes rather than the frantic pace of before. Since escaping prison, you hadn’t sought out any partner. And before that, you’d been too busy. As the forced sensation seeped into your body through the cracking lines of the mark on the back of your hand, so did all the moons of sexual repression. Even through the silken gag, your next cry was very obviously a moan —a hedonic response pulled low from your chest to the hot, true pleasure pooling and tightening within you as your body gave in to the impossible persuasion of Hubert’s desire.

“I wonder if you wouldn’t make a better whore than assassin,” Hubert told you. And you couldn’t say anything in return, all you could do was suffer the sadistic joy in those words, his lust shared through the light touch against the mark. More than all of the agony he’d subjected you to, this made you sick, a deep gouge of nausea as disbelief in the situation combined with the undeniable heady reality and twisted it all up in your head.

This was your favorite position. You wondered if he knew that, if he knew how much you craved the simple depravity of being taken in such a way. Hubert said he’d been watching you for a long time. He couldn’t have known why, couldn’t have known how much much you luxuriated in feeling your partner’s cock drive deep inside you, the control you gave up to lustful violence or sweet sensuality. It should have been different when you didn’t want it, but it wasn’t because you arched your back so each thrust pushed him against your g-spot in a way that made you tense up and shudder and that was all you, a chase of your personal pleasure.

But Hubert said that you weren’t your own person anymore, and you realized that he could feel your pleasure too because he groaned, a low and helpless sound. It made your inner walls tighten around him, your back arching even deeper as you were pulled into the deprived revel of sensation, eyes squeezed shut and jaw no longer clamped tight around the gag and eyes squeezed shut to ignore the room of doll-like eyes watching you be violated so brutally, so sadistically, so perfectly. 

He released your right arm, letting the shoulder fall limp so he could pull his sodden cravat from your mouth. At first, you didn’t understand why, but then he began to pick up the pace and fuck you with more urgency and you understood that it was because he wanted to hear you. Even if you weren’t getting anything out of it, it would have been enough to feel the mirror of his rapturous satisfaction. As it was, you couldn’t help but moan and cry out with stupidly inarticulate noises at the uncomfortably heavy duel attack of sensation, your breathing helplessly unsteady and the sounds leaving your lips taking on a keening, whiny tone as the feeling became almost more than you could bear.

In a static world and a room of dummy-people, there was only the two of you. Connected, bound, coupled irrefutably. All was motionless but your trembling knees and the lurch of the table each time he thrust you against it, Hubert’s hips and your useless right hand fisting and clawing at the wood. No crackling fire or idle chatter, just the whorish moans you couldn’t stifle, heavy breathing, and the slick, utterly indecent sound of sex.

Hubert was close; you were close. There was no separation and you were half mad, really. Rage should have been all you felt, disgust and hatred, but that was impossible when you were so thoroughly imprisoned by this unrelenting lust. So you decided that this wasn’t so bad, that you liked this. If you came on his cock, it was because it’s what you wanted. Little lies, small consolations.

“Mm… More,” you said, your voice rough and breathy, pitched high with need. “I’m… I’m close..”

“What was that?” Hubert asked, contradictorily slowing down. He sounded affected too, obviously pleased. There was no mistaking the fact that this was a reminder of power. You whined, tried to rock backward to get him to speed up, but he grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged until you cried out, your spine arching deeply with the pressure to alleviate the pain on your scalp.

“I want it faster,” you got out through clenched teeth, glad that he couldn’t see your face.

“And what makes you think you have the right to ask that of me?” Hubert asked, dropping you. A frustrated sound bubbled in your throat, the wild chase of pleasure coiled so hot and tight in your core that you could barely think, let alone reason with him. You didn’t want to play these games anymore, you just wanted to come. So you did the unthinkable.

“Please,” you begged. Hubert groaned, a sound that was low, deeply lustful, and threatening. You _liked_ that, senselessly repeating yourself if only just for the reaction.

“You filthy little minx,” he practically spat at you. But at least it got him going again. With as wet as you’d become, each thrust made an indecent squelching kind of sound, something that was only arousing to those lost in the feverish throes of whatever depravity this was meant to be. “I own your pleasure... your pain... your _life_. Do you understand?”

Desperate and unable to speak as he worked back into a violent pace, hard and fast and wonderful, you nodded.

“I’ll need more than that,” Hubert said, pushing his hand down hard against the mark on your skin. It struck you with an explosive rush of sensation, a charge of the crackling void energy you consumed to activate your abilities in frightening excess. Like electricity, the magic zipped through your body as your muscles tensed and spasmed. It hurt in an invasive, aching, burning way and the feeling shouldn’t have been pleasurable but that was the only way your body could process it, drawing taut like a bowstring on the verge of snapping, the tension becoming almost unbearable with an engorged overstimulation as he continued fucking you. You must have screamed, or maybe your jaw was locked as you could only passively endure the oppressive and confusing attack.

Worst of all was how, after the hellish feeling subsided, your need to come was only that much more intense. His need or yours? You couldn’t separate the two,couldn’t make sense of where anything began or end. You were crying and fevered and shaking apart and you were helpless to it, helpless to him. This time the realization wasn’t so much as a white knuckled release followed by terror and despair, but the frenzied, practical acknowledgement of short term gratification.

“Yes! I do, I understand,” you said in a whine of a voice that sounded nothing like your own, pinched with the fear that he’d do that again and frantic with the pressing, pulsing, pounding need.

“After all the teasing you’ve done tonight, you’d think you’d remember to address me properly,” Hubert said, his hand tensing over yours. “Try again.”

Gritting your teeth, you tried to get in a steady breath, to focus your thoughts. It was impossible. You barely even considered how much you’d hate yourself later, the words tumbling from your mouth as he dictated. “Yes, master! I... understand, I-I belong to you,” you said. There was no bitter sarcasm now, nothing but the frenzied punctuation of your erratic breathing, pitiful defeat, and raving desperation.

“Good girl,” Hubert responded, but the praise was strained and not nearly as smug as you’d have expected, too laden with arousal and his own need.

That might as well have been permission. Your only response was a low moan, your body flushed and slick with sweat and your chest heaving against the bodice of your dress, your legs trembling and back arched up to present yourself to him like a proper slut. Wildly, unbound from any single shred of reason, you thought that if you knew it could be like this you wouldn’t have fought so hard. But that thought was insignificant and fleeting, burned up by your complete and utter focus on the tight feeling that had built in your core.

And its inevitable snap.

The intensity should have been expected, although you doubted there was anything in the world that could have prepared you for the overwhelming, rushing climax of two people’s pleasure. You tried to shy away from it, to pull your hand from beneath his, but Hubert didn’t let you go. Compounded, cruel, and calamitous. Your body drew inwards as the tense coil forming in your core burst, but there was also the surging sense of release, different from your own personal tumble of bubbling heat and watery warmth. You weren’t even sure if you cried out when you came, the internal stimulus wringing you out too thoroughly to even notice. Hubert didn’t pull out, letting your spasming pussy milk him through his orgasm, and you could feel that too, his palm pressed flat against the mark he’d branded you with. The way his cock twitched as he buried himself deep, filling you with cum.

If there was a threshold as to what your body could comprehend, you met it right then, feeling ready to burst as euphoric bliss so sweet and satisfied ravaged your body before fading in lapping waves of heady pleasure. You put your fevered forehead against your balled fist as he finally slowed and stilled, your body trembling with electric little aftershocks. There was an odd duel sensation of being overstimulated and satiated, your body bouncing between the two as you jerked and trembled.

That faded, leaving only the silence and the beating, pounding rush of blood in your ears. It became an in-between veil of what was and what had been, intense emotion and an inhuman range of sensation confusing the dissonance of a stationary world and madness with all that had just transpired.

Then it was just hot and damp and quiet and uncomfortable. Sickness swelled in your throat, a deeper sense of disgust balling up in your chest. Hubert pulled out of you, his hand leaving yours. Fabric rustled as he fixed his clothes, flipped your skirt back down in a way that was almost gentlemanly. There was nothing to be done about your underwear, but he probably didn’t care. Feeling the semen slide down your inner thigh, you decided that you didn’t care either. You’d burn them regardless.

“I’ll kill you for this,” you said in a tight voice. It was muffled by the way you still faced the table, your forehead propped up on your fist. You weren’t sure you could stand, or what would happen if you tried to move. There was a pool of either saliva or tears shining beneath your face, making the wood glossy in the glint of the stationary lamplight.

At first, you doubted that Hubert would even respond. He retrieved his gloves and pulled them on. You wondered if he had heard you. Then, in a lazy, pleased voice, he said, “You can try.” With a swift motion, he hooked his hand around your neck to drag you upward, forcing you to stand up with his body against yours. You struggled, but there was a lethargy to it, a weakness as you clawed at his grasp. Standing so quickly was a bad idea, Hubert had to support most of your weight and your head was spinning the room into a faint orange-y blur. You tried to growl, but it felt like a whimper and the sound got stuck in your throat, clogged by his hand. “ _After_ I’m finished with you.” Hubert’s breath was chilling against the shell of your ear. The air of his inhale was cold too, his face ghosting over your neck while he held you still, almost nuzzling against your neck. Unlike with the kiss, this was not needy. His satisfaction was a tangible presence in the air.

Finally, Hubert released your shaking form. You whipped around to face him, forgetting in your panic exactly how dizzy and sore you were. Your legs practically crumpled beneath you, and you only barely were able to avoid falling by catching yourself on the table he’d just bent you over.

“I believe that was quite productive,” Hubert said in a business-like tone, fixing his clothes and smoothing down his hair. His cravat was uselessly crumpled on the table, but other than that, he looked no worse for wear than when he’d arrived. “I’ll leave you to rest now, I imagine you’ll need some time to reflect on what you’ve learned tonight, hm?”

You didn’t respond, watching him with what you hoped was the most fiery glare he’d ever felt. He caught your eye, a slight smile tugging on his lips.

“It seems as if you require further instruction,” Hubert said. When your eyes widened in automatic fear of that threat, he smiled in full and turned around. “But that will have to wait. I’m afraid it’s farewell for now,” he called, walking through his tableau bar of stopped time. The people who had been frozen witnesses to your humiliation, the dead man standing in the doorway with his ruddy cheeks and angry expression. “I hope you’ll have something more substantial to report the next time we meet.” He paused in the doorway, looking back at you from over his shoulder. Up to down, his eyes raking over the ravaged mess he’d made of you with obvious glee. “If not, there are always other ways to make use of you.”

The door opened, moving air in a strange way through the stale, still room. Time unfroze when Hubert pulled the door closed behind him and your arms gave out from supporting you against the edge of the table. Everything continued in a charade of complete normalcy, as if there had been no lapse at all. To you, the sudden deluge of sounds and movement was disorienting, like a bottle unstopped. Your ears popped as you unintentionally shied away from the commotion.

The man with a knife lodged and twisted in his brain collapsed. Someone screamed, nobody paying you any attention.

Petyr said your name. He must have stood up. From his perspective, you should have been sitting across from him.

The mark on the back of your hand no longer felt like anything other than skin. Not that you needed a reminder of Count Hubert von Vestra, there was enough of one pooling in a stain on the back of your skirt as you sat in a heap on the floor, in the trembling of your thighs and the aching, pinching soreness between your legs. 

Petyr said your name again, but it didn’t sound real. Didn’t sound right at all. You cradled your left hand to your chest and looked at the door and wondered if you wouldn’t have been better off dead.

But you didn’t want to die, not even as rage and shame and disgust and despair threatened to overcome you.

So you clenched your sore jaw and watched as a flurry of panic surrounded the mysterious death and added another name to your list of targets. Your victims. Count Hubert von Vestra.

**Author's Note:**

> WHOO BABY
> 
> I didn't realize until I was trying to tag this thing what I'd written. Well, it's been a gas of a time with The Bert but I can't say I'm not glad to have it finished. Remember when I told myself each story in this series would be 2k words? I'm not only a pervert, but a lying one. 
> 
> ANYWAY, hopefully you had a good time. Yuri for sure now (probably) 
> 
> If you did, perhaps you could leave a kudos or comment or just tell me who your favorite waifu is and beg me not to ruin them with my greasy fanfiction. 
> 
> Oh boy I'm chatty today.


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